


Goodbye to Sandra Dee

by biextroverts



Category: Grease (1978), Grease - Jacobs/Casey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Feminist Themes, First Kiss, frenemies to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 05:15:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7561843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biextroverts/pseuds/biextroverts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandy doesn't get the makeover for Danny. She gets it for herself.</p><p> (And maybe also for a certain Betty Rizzo.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goodbye to Sandra Dee

**Author's Note:**

> I recently saw a local production of Grease which, thanks to a few staging and sequencing things, and an added verse in Sandra Dee (Reprise), was even more loaded with female homoeroticism than the standard production of Grease. The ending was also cast in an entirely new, slightly more feminist light of which I was totally enamored. Naturally, fanfiction followed. 
> 
> Title is from Look At Me I'm Sandra Dee (Reprise).

          A knock on her bedroom door makes Rizzo look up from the magazine she's been flipping idly through. “Come in!” she calls out, tossing the month-old periodical aside. She wasn't reading it anyways. She props herself up on one elbow as the doorknob is turned and the door cracked open from the hallway. Frenchy peers in. Her lurid pink hair has been patchily re-dyed red, but you can still see the shade of greatest cosmetic failure peeking through.

          “Hey, Rizz,” she says. Then, “someone's here to see you.”

          “Tell Kenickie I don't want to talk to him,” Rizzo tells her. She rolls her eyes. “I _told_ him it was a false alarm.”

          “It ain't Kenickie,” Frenc hy says.

          “Well tell whoever it is to fuck off. I don't need  sympathy or pity or whatever the hell they're selling. ”   


          “ They ain't selling nothing,” Frenc hy says, running a hand through her hair. She bites her lip. “Look, just give her five minutes, okay, Rizz? If you ain't convinced of her case then, you can make her leave. But it'd mean a lot to her for you to see her –”

           Rizzo cuts French y off. “Fine,” she groans, and French y clears the doorway. Rizzo can hear her heels  _tap-tap-tapping_ down the hardwood staircase. She waits until she hears the front door swing open and shut before calling out to her guest. “Come on in, Blondie.”

           Sandy totters into view, and then into Rizzo's bedroom, in – to Rizzo's surprise – a total greaser outfit. Not a very good one, not one she would be caught dead wearing, but still: she's done up in heels and tight pants and blonde curls go wild on her head. Rizzo looks her up and down, taking in the contrast between black leather – even more than she wears, goddammit – and pale skin.

          “Hey,” Sandy says.

          “Going all out to keep that boy toy of yours this time, huh?” Rizzo observes.

          Sandy laughs and shakes her head. “Not hardly. All you need to do to keep a boy is put out.” She giggles at the sexual reference, but quickly bites down on her lip to stifle her laughter. It's almost cute, her attempt to play at being a tough girl. Maybe even admirable. Mostly just naive.

          Rizzo raises an eyebrow. “And what else are you planning on doing in that getup? Meeting the Queen of England?” She can see on Sandy's face when she's gone too far, because Sandy's expression crumples in on itself like she's been hit in the nose with a soccer ball. She wrinkles her nose and sniffs, and Rizzo thinks _oh, god, is she gonna cry?_ But to Sandy's credit, she just  purses her lips and pouts and crosses her arms over her chest in an almost comedic approximation of righteous indignation.

          “If you're just going to make fun of me, I can always leave.”

          Rizzo softens a little. “Nah,” she says. “Stay.” She nods towards the edge of the bed, and Sandy stands looking at her for a moment, eyes full of trepidation that Rizzo feels the slightest bit guilty about probably having caused. “Come on,” she says impatiently. “Don't just stand there holding up traffic.”

          Sandy approaches and sits down on the corner of Rizzo's bed, fidgeting to get comfortable in the unfamiliar tight clothes. Rizzo takes a moment while Sandy is occupied to appraise her again. She can still see the softness in the light eyes and the cheeks still full of baby fat, in the way the fingers on her right hand wrap around the fingers on her left as if for protection, but if you didn't know what you were looking for, you would probably just see edges. Rizzo speaks.

          “So, if you aren't going to do it with Zuko, what's the occasion for the new duds?”

          Sandy looks up at her with a shy, startled smile, as if she's forgotten Rizzo was there. “I felt like a fresh start,” she says. God, she sounds idealistic.

          “A month before the end of senior year?” Rizzo laughs. “I _knew_ you were a late bloomer.”

          “Better late than never, right?” Sandy says  brightly .  Rizzo admires Sandy's refusal to be visibly shaken by her provocative comment.  S andy laughs nervously. “Anyways, Rizz, I know we got off on the wrong foot,  and I know it probably doesn't make a difference this late in the year, but it would matter a lot to me if you could give me another try at the Pink Ladies, maybe?”

          Rizzo sits up. “ Still a sentimentalist, huh?”

          Sandy shrugs. “I made myself over to become someone I'd be prouder of, not to throw out my virtues or my values.”

           “I can't see the value of sentimentalism, but whatever floats your boat.” Rizzo sucks on her teeth, then comes to what is less of a decision and more of a realization. It surprises her, but at the same time, she feels as if it has always been inevitable. Hell, maybe it has. She locks eyes with Sandy, who looks hesitant, but hopeful, and smirks. “Well, since you went to all the effort of getting that _French makeover_ of yours, it seems only fair to at least give you a chance.” Sandy squeaks and opens her mouth to say something, but Rizzo cuts her off. “ But only once we fix that monstrosity Frenchy apparently considers some sort of style. Where'd she get those pants, secondhand from a hooker?”

          “ I don't  _think_ so.” Sandy says. She sounds mortified.  


          Rizzo snorts. “Take it easy. I was kidding.”  She pauses. “ Not about that outfit being godawful, though. ”  Rizzo stands up and walks to her closet. “We need to deal with that.”

          “ They're the only things I have that aren't like my old clothes,” Sandy protests.  Rizzo, browsing her hangers, rolls her eyes.

          “That's why I'm looking through my wardrobe. You can borrow something 'til we've got you sorted out. Now take off that eyesore.”

          She hears the rustlings and grunts of compliance, but ignores them in favor of finding something in which Sandy will look presentable. She can't picture the girl in hot pants – hell, she doesn't even know if those are hers. They might be Marty's.  Finally, she finds an off-the-shoulder black top and a pair of  purple denim pedal pushers. She slings the articles of clothing over her arm. “I've got you an outfit,” she says, turning around.

          Sandy crosses to take  the clothes from Rizzo, who finds herself suddenly hot in the face and a little short of breath – despite the  _ridiculously_ modest underclothes, Sandy has a nicer body than Rizzo would have given her credit for.

          “Your granny bra's gonna be a problem with this shirt,” Rizzo says.

          “Oh.” Sandy flushes. “I guess you're right. What do I do, then?”

          Rizzo shrugs. “You could stuff one of mine, I guess. Or just forgo. Your jugs aren't that impressive.”

          Sandy crosses her arms over her chest, but turns around. “Undo the hooks for me, would you?”

_Can't she do it herself?_ Rizzo thinks, moving to unhook Sandy's bra. It comes quickly undone under her deft fingers,  and Sandy shrugs to let the straps slide down her arms. She uncrosses them and pulls the bra off, folding it and moving to set it on the edge of Rizzo's bed. She returns to Rizzo, holding out her hand for the clothing.  Rizzo looks at her – not at her face; although that's nice, too, she can't bring her eyes to Sandy's or she knows Sandy will spot the weakness in them – but at her body, the fairness and the smoothness of it, and at the gentleness of its curves.

          “Is everything all right?” Sandy asks.

          With a sudden rush of feeling,  Rizzo kisses her.  She doesn't taste like a greaser, or even like a Pink Lady – it happened  _once_ , in the way it so often does at sleepovers when everyone has been up just a little too long and consumed just a little too much wine – but Marty's smoke-and-Chardonnay was nothing like Sandy's –  _springtime_ , is all she can think. Maybe mint toothpaste and  mouthwash and strawberries under that, but mostly just a floral scent so strong and so lovely it becomes every one of her senses but touch,  which occupies itself in other ways. She pulls Sandy in close to her and reaches a hand between them to undo the buttons of her own shirt.  But  Sandy takes Rizzo's hand and stills it, guiding their interlocked fingers back down to their sides and pulling away a little. Rizzo blinks and stutters back into existence, breathless and proud and  _satisfied_ , more than she's ever been.

          “Damn,” she says.

          Sandy giggles. “That was – something,” she says. “Is it weird if I say it was good?”

          “Ah, fuck if I know,” Rizzo tells her. “But that makes two of us.”

          Sandy smiles at her. “Let me get my clothes on,” she says. She picks up the top and pants from where they've fallen to the floor and walks over towards the bed, away from Rizzo, pulling the shirt over her head and shimmying into it. “I'm just not ready to go all the way, Rizz,” she says, stepping into the pants and pulling them up over her thighs. She pauses. “I only just learned what that was last year. How do two girls do it, anyways?”

         “Haven't got a clue,” Rizzo says. Her eyes widen, and she smirks. “Guess that means this old bitch is gonna have to learn some new tricks, huh?”

          Sandy laughs. “Guess so,” she says, returning, fully dressed, to Rizzo. She runs a short fingernail down Rizzo's arm. “What does this mean?” she asks. She rests her forehead against Rizzo's.

          Rizzo rolls her eyes. “What's with this thinking I've got all the answers?” She snorts. “I know about going with boys, as I'm sure many people will  be eager to tell you.”

          “ It was just a question,” Sandy says. Then, “I like you, Rizz.”

          Rizzo smirks. “I like you, too. And it's a damn good thing, because I'm guessing there'll be hell for us down the road.”

          Sandy knits her brows. “You're probably right.” She shuts her eyes and inhales deeply. “I guess I better start getting brave,” she says.

          “Bull _shit_ ,” Rizzo says. When Sandy looks up at her with surprise, she explains, “you have been already.” She pauses, then admits, “even when you were Sandra Dee,”

          “I still am her,” Sandy says. “So I guess that's a good thing.” She pulls away. “I should probably go. Frenchy's – actually waiting out front in the car.”

          Rizzo whistles. “Damn right. Get going before your ride does.”

          Sandy bends and picks up her bra, then goes to scoop her old clothing up off the floor by the edge of the bed. “Bye Rizz!” she says, waving, as she dashes through the door.

          Rizzo calls out in response, although she can hear Sandy's footsteps as Sandy hurtles down the stairs. “So long, Sandra Dee!”

**Author's Note:**

> When they criticize and make fun of me,/  
> Can't they see the tears in my smile?/  
> Don't they realize there's just one of me,/  
> And it has to last me a while?
> 
> The aforementioned staging and sequencing things were that Rizzo sang 'There Are Worse Things I Could Do' TO Sandy, and that 'Sandra Dee (Reprise)' took place directly after that song.


End file.
